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“Somewhere, someone knows the words to the songs you sing.”
― I Wrote This For You: Just the Words
― I Wrote This For You: Just the Words
“You can make the world beautiful just by refusing to lie about it.”
― I Wrote This For You
― I Wrote This For You
“The Angel Of Almost Then I was somewhere else, and it was bright. A voice said "If you'd carried on practicing that song you almost got right, you would've been great. Bigger than the Beatles." It continued "If you'd carried on working on that book you almost finished, it would've changed the lives of many, many people." Then it said "If you'd tried to reach the one you loved just a little bit more, when you almost had them, your life would've been completely different." And I asked "Is this what happens when I die?" And the voice said "Almost.”
― I Wrote This For You: Just the Words
― I Wrote This For You: Just the Words
“Oh, how I wish you wouldn't worry so. There's hope in every breath. But when fear infects the bones, I'm told, the heart is always next.”
― I Wrote This For You: Just the Words
― I Wrote This For You: Just the Words
“Your ribcage never meant to hurt you.
Your windpipe doesn’t know how to be pretty,
but she knows how to howl—
and here, I’d like to take a moment
to submit a formal apology to my soft parts
because they kept me warm
when I was trying to freeze to death,
and I hated them for it. An apology
for a starvation that went deeper than my skin.
One for the strongest skeleton I will ever own
and how I kept using the word girl against it.
Or how I turned words like beautiful into shapes
I could contort myself into. I didn’t mean
to compare myself to faces I can’t have.
Or spend years trying to carve myself,
like Michelangelo’s angels, from the marble—
forgetting what it is to be skin instead of stone.
I let myself be afraid. I was taught to be.
When you learn you are only as good
as your beauty routine, you forget
how to define yourself by anything else.”
― Wrong Side of a Fistfight
Your windpipe doesn’t know how to be pretty,
but she knows how to howl—
and here, I’d like to take a moment
to submit a formal apology to my soft parts
because they kept me warm
when I was trying to freeze to death,
and I hated them for it. An apology
for a starvation that went deeper than my skin.
One for the strongest skeleton I will ever own
and how I kept using the word girl against it.
Or how I turned words like beautiful into shapes
I could contort myself into. I didn’t mean
to compare myself to faces I can’t have.
Or spend years trying to carve myself,
like Michelangelo’s angels, from the marble—
forgetting what it is to be skin instead of stone.
I let myself be afraid. I was taught to be.
When you learn you are only as good
as your beauty routine, you forget
how to define yourself by anything else.”
― Wrong Side of a Fistfight
Meia’s 2025 Year in Books
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